After purchasing Samandriel at the auction house and arranging for him to be delivered that afternoon, Mitchell had gone shopping, and put a sizeable dent in his current savings. He wasn't worried, yet, because the purchases he'd made were all for Samandriel's benefit, but it was still a little overwhelming.

The brownstone he'd purchased was modest compared to the veritable mansions and large plantations in the area, but he didn't need much, really. It was close to downtown, near to the clubs and the coffeehouses and shops, as close to city living as he was going to get here, anyway. The brownstone had two stories, with the main floor having a small bedroom, bathroom, living room, and kitchen, while the upstairs had two more large rooms and another bathroom ensuite.

It would be suitable for his needs, he was sure, and his slaves. What more could a human want?

The living room, right then, was filled with boxes and bags of new things. Clothes in various styles and sizes, because he wasn't sure what Samandriel would like. He also had various electronic devices, including a journal, and a tablet that played music and television shows and movies and whatever else he could want. The kitchen was overflowing with food for the human as well, since he wasn't sure what the human liked to each, or if he could cook.

When the delivery men arrived it was in the middle of a downpour. By the time Mitchell had signed the necessary paperwork both he and Samandriel were drenched.

Mitchell's jaw dropped open, and he felt totally, utterly disarmed. The boy's touch on him was exploratory, with a gentleness that shocked and surprised him. It wasn't the touch of an experienced slave, of one who'd been trained.

"Have you never...with anyone?" he asked, curious and soft. "Never touched anyone before?" He might have been raised a slave, but he was still experienced by the time he was eighteen. "How old are you?" he blurted out.

"Not like this, no," he said softly, letting his hands draw away as he got to what remained of Mitchell's exposed skin. Contact that didn't have intent to harm at the heart of it was completely new for him, particularly with all these very different human senses. He let his hands sit awkwardly at his side playing with the hem of his shirt while he considered the question of his age.

"I ah...that's a complicated question and I don't think I'm prepared to answer it right now, Master." Formality suited him best when he was off guard like this.

Even though Mitchell hadn't asked for the touch, he was still disappointed when it went away, and he did not pout at all, even if his lower lip was stuck out. He'd been musing on just how Samandriel might have touched people, if it wasn't like this--did he mean not voluntarily?--when the boy deflected from answering his question, which completed derailed his train of thought and got him focused on another.

The vampire's eyebrows remained raised. "How can that be complicated? You are human, aren't you?"

Even Samandriel was aware of the pain radiating off of him at that question. He didn't want to think about what Mitchell might be aware of.

"Yes," he said softly, forcing himself to maintain his composure. He failed at that, feeling tears he'd refused to shed before this trickling slowly down his cheeks. It would have been a sign of too much weakness to the other slaves at the Auction House, perhaps even at the infirmary. "I am human." Not wanting to call attention to it, Samandriel didn't wipe his face. His fingers rested briefly, gently on Mitchell's stomach, a quieter mirror of the way the vampire had left him before.

Instead of lingering, he turned away. He didn't have very much left in the way of dignity and he wished to be able to keep it.

If Mitchell was confused before Samandriel started crying, it was nothing compared to how confused he was after.

"No, don't...oh, don't do that," the vampire protested, helplessly. "Is that offensive now?" he asked, curiously. "To ask someone if they're human? Because I didn't mean it. I just...the paperwork says you're human, though it also says your name is 'Alfie' and you can't talk, so...." he trailed off, not knowing what to do.

"...it wouldn't bother me if you weren't?" he offered. "I didn't buy you to feed on you, if that's what you're worried about."

No crying. Right, okay. At least that was some kind of direction. Samandriel took a steadying breath and wiped his face with his slightly too long cuffs. "It's not offensive," he said softly. Another breath and he regained his composure, not that he'd gotten very far in losing it in the first place.

"I'm human. Until four weeks ago, I wasn't. And, if you'll permit me, Master, in the spirit of you not expecting me to do anything I don't wish to, I'd rather not talk about it. But...for as long as I've been human, yours was the first touch I had that wasn't meant to inflict pain. I...I wanted to give that kindness back to you." He didn't know how he managed to find the strength to keep standing and within arms reach of Mitchell, or when he turned around to face him, but he was there, now. Standing. Not crying. It was progress.

That did seem complicated, but the more important part of that confession was that the boy had been hurt, and that he'd never been touched just because if felt good, because he'd wanted it. That was just unacceptable, and it made the Irishman send a brief prayer of thanks to Josie. If she hadn't sent him here, he would never have met Samandriel, and he was starting to realize just how lucky he'd been in finding him.

Mitchell stepped closer and wrapped his arms around Samandriel. It was a little awkward, but the vampire was willing to ignore that to give the sort-of-human his first hug.

Samandriel wasn't sure why he was being hugged, but he couldn't deny that it filled him with a kind of warmth he hadn't anticipated. His arms wrapped over Mitchell's shoulders, face burrowing automatically against the vampire's neck as he melted into it. If he could have, he would've stretched his wings and wrapped those around the other man as well to keep them both safe and warm in whatever protection he could offer. He didn't though, and he doubted that even if he did, Mitchell would be aware of it the same way he would have.

Something this nice wasn't what Samandriel expected. It shouldn't have been too much of a surprise when his now all too human instincts took over with the smell of Mitchell right there in his nostrils, the press of their bodies together, and the foreign feeling of safety surrounding him. And yet, in some ways it was unexpected even for Samandriel when his nose brushed against stubble rough skin and he found himself going for his first kiss as well just as gently as his initial touches had been.

Mitchell wasn't expecting the kiss, which meant that he started a little in surprise and was generally unresponsive. But he wasn't about to dissuade the boy when he suspected it was his first. Instead, he gently cupped the boy's face with his hand, searched his expression for any hint of what this meant to him. He wasn't sure if he had kissed the vampire because he felt he owed it to him, or because he wanted to--and if he wanted to again. "Alright, Sam?" he asked, his voice thick. "It's usually better the second time," he added, smiling warmly.

The kiss, for all it was, ended on a note that twisted something sharp and painful in Samandriel's chest. Fortunately, that feeling was all too brief because Mitchell was touching his cheek and looking like he was carrying on with all the parts of him that just wanted to be sure that Samandriel was doing things because he wanted to.

With any luck, Samandriel hoped Mitchell would learn sooner rather than later that if he didn't want to do something and wasn't asked to do it, he wasn't going to do it. The angel nodded, very much wanting to try again, but also not wanting to seem too eager as his body hummed with what he was pretty sure was desire. He nodded. "Alright." He knew his voice was going to betray that slight sliver of hope, but he couldn't bring himself to think of that as a bad thing.

Mitchell's small smile grew, because though Sam seemed nervous, and easily disappointed, he wasn't actually skittish. And that was a good thing, because for all his eagerness to help, Mitchell had little more than good intentions. He'd never trained a slave--well, not really. He and Josie had learned together, but that was different. That'd been love, and hang the rules. But maybe this could be too? He already liked the boy. How difficult could it be to fall in love with him?

He tilted the boy's face up to his, fingers light on his chin, as he covered the boy's lips with his own.

Samandriel accepted that kiss as gracefully as he could. Fingers curled lightly into the fabric of Mitchell's shirt as he found himself not only returning it, but practically melting into it. So that was what the big deal about all of that was.

The soft sound that found its way out of Samandriel's throat surprised even him so much so that he wasn't sure if he should pull away or not. Hiding his possible shame in more kissing seemed like the best option. Maybe somehow Mitchell wouldn't notice that he was going pink all over if they kept so close.

Mitchell smiled against Samandriel's mouth, dropping soft, gentle kisses on his lips. He really was too sweet, and not for the first time the Irishman was grateful he'd been led here, by whatever force had led him here.

When the boy made a soft whimper, the vampire couldn't help but laugh, and pull back with a smile to kiss his forehead, his temple. "You're quite adorable, aren't you?" he commented, ruffled the boy's hair fondly.

The muscles in Samandriel's back tensed, shoulders pulling back before the rest of him did. "If you say so," he said softly. He reached up to smooth his hair back into place just as the kettle whistled to interrupt them.

Adorable. Right. Of course. He stepped further away to let Mitchell deal with the tea. "Um," he said awkwardly, toeing the ground for something to do that wasn't twisting the cuffs of his shirt and looking somewhere near Mitchell's ankles. "At some point, perhaps later or or whenever, would you be willing to." Samandriel cleared his throat, loathe to ask for help or to feel like he was worth it. "And if you have any I suppose would you be willing to..." It seemed a lot to ask and definitely not his place to do so. A slave should take what their master offers them and not ask for more. His gaze dropped even further. "Lotion or something...on my back. I'd do it myself, but I don't think I can." A brief pause and he added, fighting his own shame, "please."

The boy's reaction confused Mitchell, because he'd been ready for more kissing, and he frowned, brow furrowed as Sam pulled away. But the boy's request confused him further. "You're hurt?" he asked. "I don't remember the paperwork saying that. What's wrong? What do you need? Do you need a doctor? Or um. Vampire blood?"

Samandriel shook his head. "It's too late for vampire blood. Just...new scars. They pull a little still." Taking a slow, steadying breath, the former angel stepped back, turned around and shrugged out of his open shirt so that Mitchell could take a good look at the long pair of angled scars running most of the length of his back. He hadn't been lying when he said that a kind touch was a new thing. The wounds had healed, but not as well as they might have under someone who was more invested in tending to him and not just shoving him out the door as soon as possible.

Mitchell swallowed, reached out to touch, trace the thin lines lightly. "Oh, Sam," he said softly, his voice tight with sympathy, and anger--directed not at Samandriel, but at whoever had done this. He'd seen such savagery before, had a vicious and violent past himself, thanks to Herrick. But he couldn't imagine anyone hurting a human being like this. He knew it happened, that it was commonplace, but it was still shocking for him to come face-to-face with it.

"Who did this to you?" he demanded. He couldn't remove the scars, but he could avenge them.

Samandriel hadn't ever expected someone to be horrified at what was done to him and Mitchell consistently proved that wrong. He didn't...

He closed his eyes, remembering his brother's cruel smirk as he passed sentence, the way his blade cut through flesh so easily watching...just watching his Grace tucked away in a bottle where he would likely never know it again no matter how it called to him. He still hadn't forgotten the completely hollow feeling being without it left him. It hadn't diminished in the slightest.

"Who are we to question the judgement of the host of Heaven?" Samandriel asked softly, managing to keep his voice even. He didn't think his brother spoke for Heaven. His brother spoke for himself and against anyone their Father or elder brothers might have liked even a little bit more than him.

Delicate fingers reached to catch Mitchell's, drawing him closer, back still to him. Anyone else, he didn't think he'd allow to touch him where it still felt like a wound on his very soul, but he guided those fingers up to the scar on his throat anyway.

Mitchell moved willingly where Samandriel guided him, stepped closer, close enough that he could feel the heat of the boy's body. His fingers traced the scar on his throat. "Heaven," he repeated, unsure if he was understanding Samandriel. "Heaven did this to you? Angels?"

He'd never met one before, didn't know anyone who had. His other hand continued to stroke the boy's back, not exploratory, but comforting.

When he'd become human in the first place, he'd promised himself he'd never mention it. Samandriel couldn't bear the thought of what any master might think of a slave who had once been so much more than he was now.

There was something about Mitchell, something kind and caring despite his superiority. A slave's job was to please and tend to his Master, but for the short while Samandriel had known Mitchell, it seemed to be much the other way around. Like when he'd met the other man earlier, Samandriel thought very keenly that his dear elder brother set over silence wanted him to remember how to sing. If he closed his eyes, he could almost picture Duma looking kind and patient at him. Safe. Mitchell felt safe and worth trusting.

"Only Heaven could do this to me," he said softly and then found his courage somewhere amidst the flutter of fear in him. "Samandriel was the name of the angel of vivid Imagination, of creativity, and one of many set over fertility. Except now my papers say my name is Alfie and I'm nothing more than human."

"Oh, Sam," Mitchell whispered. He enfolded the boy in his arms--no, not a boy, despite his appearance. He knew angels took vessels, bodies that belonged to others, so the boy he saw was not the angel contained inside. He wasn't entirely sure how that worked, but he was a vampire. He'd long ago accepted there were things beyond his understanding.

Feeling Mitchell pressed against his back, Samandriel felt home in a way he never thought he would again. He'd thought that any pet names he ended up with might just grate down his skin. Listening to Mitchell's soft whisper only served to make him feel nearly treasured. He closed his eyes while he soaked in the contact, the obvious care.

Gently, he shifted around. He reached up to touch Mitchell's cheek, eyes searching the vampire's. Communicating without words, he hoped Mitchell was expecting the kiss when it came this time. He couldn't put to voice yet that he'd gained something he never would have if his wings hadn't been clipped, but he could perhaps let Mitchell feel it in the way their mouths moved together.

This time, Mitchell knew that Samandriel wasn't kissing him out of duty, but out of want. If not desire, or lust, then the want of a gentle touch, of being cared for. He couldn't imagine what it must be like to go from being an angel to being so much less than before--but Sam wasn't really less. Not if he remembered who he was. And Mitchell would do his best to make the former--fallen?--angel see that.

"Oh Sam," he breathed again, soft and so tender as he cupped the boy's face, kissed him gently, with as much care and love as he could communicate using only touch. He wanted the boy to feel cherished, to know that the vampire would protect him, would avenge him, if he couldn't protect him, and above all that he cared for him, that he wasn't any less worthwhile for having been so much more before.

"Stop talking," Samandriel said against Mitchell's lips, fingers curling in his shirt once more as he kept him close. He wasn't thinking about what their respective positions were supposed to be, that he was in no place to be giving orders. All he could think was that he liked kissing. A lot. He liked kissing Mitchell and feeling the vampire's hands. He needed this. More than that, he wanted it.

"Please," he said, nose brushing with Mitchell's, teeth catching his lower lip gently. "Keep going." This. This was good. This was strangely freeing and he just wanted more of whatever connection he could have.

Mitchell smiled against the boy's mouth, pressing soft kisses against his lips, nudging his nose lightly with his own.

And then they were interrupted by a piercing shriek, as the kettle reminded Mitchell that he'd put the water on to boil.

He groaned, and pulled back, his expression apologetic. "Sorry!" he winced. "Sorry, I'll just...just let me turn it off." He backed away, turned the stove off and then turned back around to face the angel.

Samandriel let out a soft noise of protest when he lost Mitchell's mouth against his own. He waited for his master, wanted with an intensity he never truly understood as anything other than an abstract concept before. "Pretty sure you're going to have to make that up to me."

He was allowed to joke. After all, he was the one standing there in his underwear sharing scraps of himself that in some ways he never wanted to. "If...if it pleases you of course, sir." There was still a chance he might push too far, might let himself think that they could one day be nearly equal when that was never going to be the case.

Mitchell grinned, delighted at the way Samandriel was becoming more comfortable so quickly, and added the boiling water to the two mugs on the counter. "I promise," he laughed "But first--tea. It might be the Irish in me, but in my experience, there's very little a good cuppa can't make better. Well, that and good whiskey, but it's a little early for whiskey."

Samandriel smiled a little more softly and put his shirt back on. Tea wasn't going to bring his Grace back, but it might help him settle into his new life a little easier. "Alright," he said, and finally did what Mitchell asked at the beginning. He sat down at the table and made himself at home.